September 11, 2008

My name is Lydia. It was decided on by my father, who had been going through a bible bashing phase at the time. He subsequently converted to Judaism, then Buddhism, but by then it was too late.

I feel safe sitting in my mother’s living room, drinking tea that she had made and watching her, watching Coronation Street. My mother is addicted to soap operas. If she goes away on holiday she records them, then watches them back in bed. She can watch up to ten episodes in succession. She is capable of staying up till two or three in the morning doing this.

When I turned 28, I wondered what I’d do when I grew up. I wondered aloud to my mother and she told me that I had better decide soon before it was too late.

Here are two things I know about myself:

1. I have excessively flexible fingers.
2. My favourite fruit is the lychee.

Together, these facts might mean that I would be ideally suited to a career in fruit picking – each digit curling limberly and reaching upwards towards the best specimens. Fruit growers – from England to Indonesia – might ask for me specifically – and by name.

Lydia, was once the name of an entire country, known for its two rich kings, Midas and Croesus. Lydia was also a Christian woman who sold purple fabric. There have been many famous Lydia’s, including: Lydia Taft, the first female voter in American history and Lydia Lili’uokalani, the last reigning monarch of Hawaii. Lydia Sigourney was a famous poet. There has never been a famous poet called Lydia Towsey. Lydia means noble in Greek and chaos in Hebrew. I met my first other Lydia 2 years ago. She was nothing like me, but her father had also been a Christian.

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I wish – I could know something about you. Just something small – something sharp and bright – something that maybe, nobody else in the world would know. Like…

How old were you you when you had your first orgasm? Was it good? Did you feel like you were dying until you realised what was really going on? Or was it different for you? What was it like?

Where did you go on your first ever holiday? If you can, picture it in your head. Was there sand? Were there birds circling? Was the sky like a slate or like a clear blue lagoon? Can you remember – or are there only fragments? I can remember my mother’s swimming costume, the way it tied around her neck. It was navy with thin white stripes that ran diagonally. Try and think back. What can you see? Can you see it? Can you remember?
What was your first soft toy called? What did you want to be when you grew up? What’s the longest that your hair has ever been? Can you use your hand, right now, to indicate the point on your body? Look around you, see how far our hair has reached.

What would you do if you could do anything? Put your hand up if you’d fly. Put your hand up if you’d be able to swim underwater without needing to breath. Put your hand up if you’d be able to solve all the cross word puzzles in the world, just by looking at them. Put your hand up if I haven’t really said what you’d do. If the answer, would just be – too private.

None of this matters, but all of this matters. The answers to these questions are our answers, your answers, tonight, in this room – and the air is full of them like migrating birds. Can you feel them as you breath in? The weight of them? Of all our silent thoughts? Can you sense your own? Can you draw them back, lay them down, fold them up and into your quiet places, where they’ll be safe again – where they’ll be your own again, but different, because now you’ve let them out, now you’ve let them fly, now you’ve let them breathe, breathe – in, out, in, out, in, out, in….

June 29, 2008

She eased herself into the chair
like it was the palm of a giant
and she was the drawing
of a china doll. Days like this
they left her feeling old
but like a child and then
she’d think of school:
sharp bells – pulling into rooms,
down corridors, up stairs,
the bell for fire, that also meant
the massed crush of blue clothes,
her place in lines of classroom groans,
only leaving more exposed,
the beating bells
of inward breaths,
raised lungs,
straight chests. The bell
ringing in the morning,
too early for safe in the world.
She always thought the bells would stop
She should have known
She should have heard them
ringing then.

June 28, 2008

Mostly I’m fine. But then
someone says your name,
asks me how I am, without you,
in the flat – and I break as easy
as hard chalk
dropped on flagstones,
weakened glass, pressed.

Last night, I met a guy – tight curls
like massed particles of sleek darkness-
who talked about a French theory
for being in the world where
places that are new
may unfold like open grass,
where one may walk easy,
straight backed, free from fear
and with one’s inner child –
wide eyed and ever curious,
never anxious, hopeful in the world.